


Limits

by Brinchestiel



Series: Destiel Drabbles, Prompts, One-shots, IDK. [8]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Hurt Castiel, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Monster of the Week, Protective Dean Winchester, Wendigo, human!Cas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-03
Updated: 2016-04-03
Packaged: 2018-05-31 00:57:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6449086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brinchestiel/pseuds/Brinchestiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A short drabble written for my darling friend cityofdestiel over on Tumblr, who provided me with the following prompt:<br/>"I thought you were dead."</p><p>A newly human Castiel learns his limits the hard way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Limits

**Limits**

In hindsight, Dean should have considered that Castiel was human now, and there was absolutely no way in hell that Dean should have let him come on this hunt. The fallen angel was a gangly awkward mess, with not much clue how to feed and clothe himself, let alone how to utilize his newly human senses to properly protect himself from harm.

But, he’d looked at Dean with such an indignant fury set in the crease of his brow, the clench in his jaw.

“I’m not some damsel in distress, Dean, I’m a warrior of Heaven.”

Dean couldn’t very well argue with that. So, he let him come on this run-of-the-mill wendigo gig, gave him the benefit of the doubt. What could go wrong?

Except that now, not only was he in the middle of the woods hunting a truly dangerous creature, he’s also entirely lost Castiel. Breathing gets difficult when the icy grip of fear takes hold. And right now, Dean’s afraid. His vision swims as he and Sam stalk through the forest, searching for the lair, casting fervent glances over their shoulders.

“Dean,” Sam whispers, tightening his grip on his makeshift flamethrower and pointing to his left. Dean nods grimly, covering Sam’s back, chanting ‘please don’t be dead, please don’t be dead’ under his breath as he goes.

* * *

The cave stinks of blood, and Dean swallows against the bile rising in his throat. Shadows flicker and tease across the damp cave walls, ensuring that Dean’s breath stays just a little too shallow, just a little too hitched.

When Sam groans an ‘oh god’ under his breath, Dean’s almost certain he’s going to be sick. He pushes past his brother, panic making his legs shake.

“Cas?” he whispers, “Cas.”

Castiel, former angel of the Lord, is strung up by his wrists, head lolled against his chest, sickeningly lifeless.

“Hey, hey, Cas,” Dean urges, reaching up to take Castiel’s face in his hands. His eyes are closed, lips slack and parted. Dean waves a hand in front of them, growling when he can’t feel any breath against his palm.

“Dean, we gotta get out of here, let me get him down, we’ll get him out,” Sam insists with an iron grip around his bicep. Dean blinks back the tears, clearing his throat gruffly, aiming the flamethrower at the entrance to the alcove while Sam gets to work untying Cas. He looks back just as Castiel’s deadweight falls over Sam’s shoulder and his grip on the weapon tightens until his knuckles turn white.

The victims that had brought them out here in the first place fared no better, and Dean studied their lifeless faces in the gloom, trying desperately to find any differences between theirs and Cas’… if there was any chance that his friend was alive, he was going to hold on to it with everything he had. He couldn’t think… wouldn’t think that Cas…

A low growl resounding through the cave has both the brothers draw up, Sam lowering Castiel to the floor, weapons ready in a second.

“Dean,” Sam whispers, his eyes flying around, ears straining for any sign of the wendigo’s position, “get Cas out of here.”

“And leave you here by yourself? No way,” Dean protests, but he does square himself more firmly over Castiel, one leg in front and one behind, gritting his jaw tightly.

“I can cover you, but we’ve gotta get him out of here, he’s bleeding out.”

“Son of a-“ Dean stoops and lifts Castiel over his shoulder with a grunt, the muscles of his back straining under the effort, “what we feedin’ you, huh bud?” he quips, ignoring the swoop of nausea he feels when silence is his only response.

The snarling appears again. Closer. Louder. Dean tenses.

“Hey!” Sam shouts, and there is a sudden flurry of movement that Dean catches out of the corner of his eye. He hesitates-

“Dean! Get out of here!”

He hefts Castiel further up his shoulder and flees as silently as he can, his footsteps chased by the hissing of Sam’s flamethrower.

* * *

The drive back to the motel is silent as the grave, Cas sprawled out on the backseat, his head pillowed in Sam’s lap, the Winchesters’ plaid overshirts sacrificed to the stopping of blood flow. There’s a particularly nasty patch of scratches, almost down to the bone on Castiel’s shoulder, and he’s bleeding pretty steadily from a gash at the back of his head, his hair crusted and matted.

“Stupid son of a bitch,” Dean mutters, slamming his fist against the steering wheel.

“Dean, we should check for-“

“Dammit, Sam, no,” Dean growls. He wants to wait until he’s in the general vicinity of Hunter’s Helper before he learns he failed his best friend. Again. Sam sighs, pressing the damp cotton of his shirt into the cold skin of Castiel’s shoulder.

* * *

They lay Castiel out on one of the twin beds, patch him up as best they can with dental floss, a sewing needle and plenty of whiskey, just like they’ve always done. Then, and only then, when the rest of the bottle is safely in Dean’s possession, does he finally allow himself to check for a pulse.

He presses two fingers into the side of the angel’s neck, pressure forming behind his eyes when the action reminds him of all the times Cas saved his hide. There is a pulse beating faintly against his fingertips, but he can’t tell if it’s Cas’ or his own, so he moves to Castiel’s wrist, hiding a kiss in an innocent brush of lips to the back of his hand; an action he prays goes unnoticed. He almost drops Cas’ hand in shock.

“Sam, Sam, he’s alive. There’s a- Cas? Hey, Cas, buddy.” He feels hysterical, like he needs to laugh, scream, cry, beat his chest with his fists, but he settles for shaking Castiel’s leg as gently as he can manage.

“Castiel?” Sam tries, his face splitting into a dimpled grin when a pained groan answers him.

“Cas!” Dean cries, tightening his grip on Cas’ thigh, “Hey.”

Cas blinks slowly, his breathing is faint and shallow, but he’s alive. He’s alive.

“Man,” Dean says, resolutely ignoring how his voice cracks, “thought you were dead. Thought we’d lost you.”

Castiel’s lips pull up in a shaky smile, and he shakes his head minutely. His fingers squeeze around Dean’s hand gently, and Dean realises he can’t even remember when he began holding it. Sam collapses on his back onto the other bed, sighing in relief, but Dean? Dean sits beside that bed all night, running his thumb over the dry skin of Castiel’s knuckles, like a holy vigil.

“I won’t ever lose you again, Cas,” he whispers into the darkness of the room, when he’s sure Sam is asleep, “I won’t.”


End file.
